


Leather and Lazy Mornings

by kiaronna



Series: YOI One-Shots [11]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Horse Racing, Equestrian, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: “Hey,” says Yuri Plisetsky, “you do realize that guy you’re throwing your tack box at doesn’t work here, right?”“What do you mean?” Viktor questions. “He always grooms Makkachin for me, if Yakov demands I do something else and I don’t have time.”“Your horses are smarter than both of you put together.”Where Viktor is the reigning champion of English showmanship, but mostly just has a crush on the cute guy he always sees around the stables.





	Leather and Lazy Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> If you don’t ride horses, um... I have explained very little of the terminology and you might not like this. Whoops.  
> Also, I had this partially written up, but I finished it up quickly for a horse friend's birthday. Happy birthday, Steph, who has shown me cute horse pics. Please don't be mad at me for screwing up equestrian competition details.

With a nudge of his heels, Viktor spurs Makkachin on, and the mare clears the wall with a whole sky to spare beneath her: they’re flying. Coming down to earth, settling back into her smooth rhythm, feels steady and sure, like a heartbeat.

His heartbeat stutters when he realizes there’s another horse and rider off to the side, visible through the trees. Their eyes catch. It’s the groomsman from Yakov’s stables, black hair ruffling as the wind kicks up, blowing so hard his cheeks protest in a bloom of windswept pink. Viktor may— _absolutely absolutely absolutely_ —have a crush on him.

“Yuuri!” He exclaims, and without a hitch in rhythm guides Makkachin over with his legs. The groomsman is in an Australian stock saddle, and he looks like a horse that’s ready to bolt, though his mount is steady beneath him.

“Hi, Viktor.” The Russian pulls up next to him, and Makkachin sniffs at the other horse, who’s breathing a bit heavy, settling their heads close and half-lidding her brown eyes.

“I’ve never met you out riding before! Just here for exercise and a trail ride?”

“Yes,” the groomsman replies, clutching at his reins. “Are you…” He cuts off, eyes flickering over Viktor’s form as his words taper off.

“Oh,” Viktor realizes, and puts a finger to his lips, leaning forward and peering at Yuuri through the space in Makkachin’s ears, “don’t tell Yakov. This will be our little secret, okay? He doesn’t like me taking Makkachin out on the trails too much, but she loves it, and I can’t deny her. We’re about to go splash around in the creek—join us? With your beautiful horse— whose is he?”

“Ah, he’s—mine.” Viktor sits up and looks the gelding over briefly—shorter than Makkachin by several hands, but muscular and lovely, curly mane and color surprisingly similar to Makkachin’s. Viktor runs a hand absentmindedly through his mare’s hair, pats her fondly. “…Vicchan. His name is, ah, Vicchan.”

“Cute,” Viktor proclaims. “Come with us to the creek?”

“I can’t,” Yuuri says, ducking his head and fiddling with the leather of his saddle. “I have to go, because—just. Another time.”

Viktor sighs, waves goodbye, and heads off on Makkachin to the creek. She kicks at the water, and Viktor leans over and wraps around her neck, breathes in her smell, warm and dusty. The reticence of the groomsman to talk to him is heartbreaking, at the very least, but Viktor understands that he can be intimidating. Others have been scared of him before, shy as they come up for photographs of him and Makkachin—Viktor has won the dressage and show jumping competitions for five years in a row, at this point—but usually all it takes is a well-placed smile and handshake. Yuuri, though, is skittish—sparkling brown eyes pooling wide every time Viktor so much as approaches, looking like he’d rather dive into a pile of hay than have a conversation. All Viktor wants to do is lie on a pile of hay with him. Preferably naked.

When Viktor returns to the stables, Yuuri’s being lectured at the end of the barn, fingers twisted and eyes low as a man with a ponytail as long as a horse’s tail calmly waggles a finger at him. _Thank you_ , Viktor thinks, _for the riding pants we wear_. Yuuri’s may be older and far from stylish, but they still fit him well, dust sprinkled evenly over them. Viktor will brush it off with his palm. Viktor will—

“Vitya!” And Yakov appears. “I’ve been looking for you for hours! I wanted you in my office _yesterday_ —“

“Let me finish rubbing Makkachin down,” Viktor interrupts cheerfully, but at Yakov’s stormy, exasperated stare, Viktor smiles and turns. At the end of the barn, the man with the ponytail has disappeared, and Yuuri is wiping dirt from his glasses. Viktor strides towards him, and Yakov heads off with a warning of _five minutes, Vitya_.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri, but Yakov needs me and Makkachin isn’t ready to go back in her stall yet. I know you have other chores, but you’re so good with her, so would you…”

Yuuri darts forward, ever graceful, and wordlessly takes the tack box with the brushes and hoof picks, nods. Viktor doesn’t like to have the barn workers care for Makkachin all the time—he likes to spoil her himself, fingers swirling over her soft hair and lips to her velvet muzzle—but Yuuri is especially good with her. That’s why he fell in love, at first—he’d forgotten his gear in the stables, and had returned late in the evening to Yuuri, all soft lines in the twilight and lead line looped loosely over his arm, a different horse at his side and Makkachin’s head aloft before his chest. In retrospect, the horse had probably been Vicchan, but Viktor can’t remember now. All he remembers is Yuuri, stroking sweetly at Makkachin’s face and murmuring low, as she nodded in time with his sweeping touches. And the way he’d swung his leg up onto his own horse afterwards, mounting with power, the rhythm in his hips as he rode away from the side of the barn and the stalls where Makkachin whinnied after him, her head stuck out the window… They’d had conversations after that, Viktor following him around the barn while Yuuri shyly responded to questions, the Russian turning his silver head at the other man’s every movement like Viktor has a bit in his mouth, and Yuuri can lead him where he wants him.

Oh, Viktor wants those hips, that soft smile.

Now there is no smile, as Yuuri shifts the tack box between his hands, biting his lip. Viktor wants it there, so he reaches out, runs calming, tickling fingers up Yuuri’s arm. There is no response.

“Thank you,” he chirps, despite the disappointment wiggling in his heart. “Bye, Yuuri!”

As he makes his way across the grass to where Yakov’s main office is, away from the stables, Yuri Plisetsky falls into step beside him. Yuri and his horse, Potya, are right at Viktor’s flank, soon to be his closest rival in English competitions. As much as Viktor looks forward to it, he’s starting to wonder, starting to wish there was more than strict motions and silent, judging crowds in his life.

“Hey,” says Yuri Plisetsky, pulling Viktor from his reverie. “You do realize that guy you’re throwing your tack box at doesn’t work here, right?”

“What do you mean?” Viktor questions. “He always grooms Makkachin for me, if Yakov demands I do something else and I don’t have time.” Yuri scoffs, kicks at the grass with his boot, eyes rolling.

“Your horses are smarter than both of you put together.”

Makkachin _is_ very smart—she’d once figured out how to open her stall and had eaten half the oats in the barn, though only after releasing several other horses and in general wreaking havoc. So Viktor furrows his brow, but shrugs, and goes to his meeting with Yakov. The conversation is forgotten.

Three days later, Mila approaches him. “Yuri says you need to be educated.”

“Isn’t Yuri’s idea of education digging a spur into my foot?” Viktor questions, and Mila laughs. She does not deny it. Yuri kicks and bites worse than the most irritable of horses.

“How about this. I have three tickets for a Western competition next weekend—you should come. I just broke up with my boyfriend, so it’ll be you and me and Yuri.”

Viktor hasn’t been to any Western competitions in years, though he admires that side of the equestrian world. He has no idea why this is what Mila considers _education_ , but he decides to go anyway. It’s only a hour’s drive, and Viktor needs a break from the saddle sometimes, needs to stretch out his legs.

Western blows away his expectations. The competition is a different beast than Viktor’s English career—rowdier, louder, and Mila somehow buys them two beers that they manage to keep from a sulking Yuri while they sit and watch.

“Ah,” Mila says, pointing down at the arena, “here we go.”

Out comes a rider and horse—black hair slicked back, shoulders stiff with tension, but right before they begin he can see the distant figure take deep breaths, settle. Then, with a shot, they’re off—rounding barrels with sprays of sand, the rider leaning expertly and urging his horse with ease. If Viktor wasn’t already so hung up on one of Yakov’s stable workers, he’d probably have developed a new crush then and there.

“Wow,” he breathes. The rest of the crowd seems to agree, hollering and whooping, and Viktor doesn’t have to look up at the screen to know without a doubt that this rider will take home the first place ribbon. “Amazing.”

“That wasn’t even his best time,” Yuri huffs from his side.

“That wasn’t even his _event_ ,” Mila states. “He’s the current champion for the endurance rides. He does reining, too.”

“Do you think he’d be willing to talk to an English rider?” Viktor asks, and Mila smirks over at him.

“Oh, you might be too stuffy for him, Vitya. I don’t know if he’ll talk to you again after this.”

“Again?” Viktor questions, but then the rider waves up at the crowd and the fans lose it, screaming over him. _Oh, no_ , Viktor realizes dimly. If he’s already met the mysterious rider at some event and didn’t recognize him, it’ll have been a shame. He racks his brain, but comes up with nothing. He hasn’t even seen the rider’s face from up close, after all. There have been so many fans, so many competitions, that Viktor can’t recall anyone looking particularly disappointed in him. Well, Yakov. With a sigh, he figures that what’s done is done.

“Oh,” says Mila, after they’ve watched the reining event and Viktor is sitting and gaping after the other rider, “he gave us a way to get into the parts of the arena reserved for competitors, so we can go back and visit him later.”

“You’re _friends_ with him?” Viktor nearly pounces, and Yuri digs a sneaker into the front of Viktor’s nice suit to push him back into his chair.

“Of course we are! Some of us actually _talk_ to other riders and don’t make idiotic assumptions!”

“Mila,” Viktor whines, and she raises an eyebrow at him in all her youthful wisdom.

“We’ll go visit him now, Vitya, don’t make puppy dog eyes at me.”

They weave through the crowds, the nervous excitement a strange buzz in Viktor’s veins—since when is he excited about meeting other riders, something small like this?—and as they push their way into the familiar, comforting smell of horses and leather polish, Viktor finds he can’t wait.

But the rider is gone. Yuri and Mila peer into a stall, but it’s empty, reins hanging on a hook outside of it.

“He came and went,” Mila pouts. “I even told him that we three were coming.”

“There’s your problem, hag,” Yuri fumes. “He turns into dust and blows away the second Viktor comes up. I _told_ you not to do that.”

Viktor pauses. “He doesn’t want to meet me?” Yuri snorts, and Mila pats him gently on the arm.

“You’ll understand,” she says, sweetly sympathetic, and Viktor squints at her. In the soft clicking of hooves, the whuffling of sighing horses, and the metallic, melodic jingle of riders moving their equipment, Viktor thinks of the rider’s straight back and form, one with his horse and fluid in motion. He wants to meet him. “The endurance ride happens next weekend,” Mila says, “do you want to go?”

A stampede couldn’t stop Viktor.

 

* * *

 

Admiration for the Western champion, however sudden and strong, does not dull his obsession with Yakov’s stablehand. He finds him pulling gently at Vicchan’s front leg on day, bent over in a way that’s very distracting for the Russian.

“Yuuri,” he says, and the other man startles, barely keeping his hands on Vicchan’s sleek leg. “Stretching out?”

“Mm,” Yuuri agrees. “This leg especially.”

“Has Vicchan been injured there in the past?”

Yuuri’s back bows, shoulders sinking as he lets Vicchan’s hoof come to rest on the ground. “It was my fault.” He doesn’t say anything more, but Viktor wants to gather him up, to wedge him against the barrel of Vicchan’s soft shoulder and hug him.

“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, Yuuri. Vicchan certainly doesn’t seem to blame you.”

Yuuri peers up at him, expression wary and tight, shameful. “I should have paid better attention. But I panicked, and Vicchan ended up going lame during a ride. It was my first big event and I—yeah.”

Viktor gives in to his urges, comes to rub a circle on Yuuri’s back, and he shudders slightly, looks up with hesitant eyes. “It’s okay. It happens to the best of us. Makkachin and I took a season off a few years ago to work through a leg injury. And she’s a champion in dressage and jumping.” He pauses, digests Yuuri’s last words. “Oh. You compete.” Maybe in local competitions, or he’s working his way up and that’s how he found himself at these stables. “What does Vicchan do best at with you, in your opinion?” As reticent as Yuuri is to talk to Viktor at all, he is even more private with details of his life, sometimes. Viktor wants to learn every single one of them.

Yuuri shuffles, picks up a curry comb and ducks to Vicchan’s other side, opposite where Viktor stands. “Um. We do a couple of things. We’re okay.”

“A couple of things,” Viktor repeats. “Have you ever showed in dressage? Oh, have you ever seen me do dressage?”

“Uhm,” Yuuri chokes out, and it sounds uncomfortable. Viktor leans across Vicchan’s sturdy back, props his chin up atop his arms.

“Yuuuuuri.” There’s just a squeak in response, but Viktor forges forward. He and Yuuri have been making progress, in the last couple of weeks. Talking about their families, their hobbies outside of horsemanship—dance, Yuuri, really?—exchanging stories. But this conversation is pushing Yuuri right back into his shell, making him skittish, and Viktor desperately wants to take his hand and keep him out in the open. “Are you any good?”

“Not really,” Yuuri murmurs, miserable, eyes following the circling motions of his hand. Their faces are mere inches apart. Viktor wants to cross that distance, nibble at his pink lips, see if he’s as talented as Viktor has imagined at kissing, and holding hands, and making Viktor smile. Nevermind— Viktor is confident he’s talented at the last one. _Yuuri, Yuuri_ —oh. There’s a horse between them. Also, Yuuri is pulling back.

None of this encounter is going the way Viktor would like it to.

“I bet you’re better than you believe,” Viktor says, softly. “With muscles like that,” he slides his gaze lazily down Yuuri’s body, his outfit, dirt and all. “It’d be impossible for you to have no talent.”

“Oh my god,” Yuuri blurts. Viktor ignores him.

“I’d like to see sometime.”

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, mutters something to himself. But then Viktor blinks and suddenly Yuuri has his hand hot on Viktor’s hand, his gaze sure. “Come to my competition this weekend,” he says. “It lasts for two days, but you could just come for the last few hours. If you—if you want to. Because I’d… love to have you there. To have your eyes on me.” It’s felt like years since someone wanted Viktor at a horse competition when he was just Viktor, not settled high and reigning atop Makkachin.

“I want to,” Viktor breathes. Screw seeing the mystery Western rider, no matter how much Viktor had wanted to meet him. Yuuri, kind and honest and genuine Yuuri, is more important. He’d go to a pony show for five-year-olds if Yuuri asked him, and he’d enjoy it.

Yuuri smiles up at him, sweet and brimming with a nervous surety. “Really?”

“Really,” Viktor confirms. “But you might have to make it worth my while.” Yuuri swallows, hand tightening over Viktor’s. Viktor, of course, ruins it. “…Makkachin’s stall could use a good mucking, you know.”

“Viktor!”

The Japanese man laughs anyway, a sound so glorious that Viktor tips his face forward, helpless. “Makkachin really likes it when you kiss her muzzle.” Yuuri, on tiptoes, comes to meet him.

“Like this?” Yuuri’s lips are soft. A little dry, from riding Vicchan out in the sun. Viktor can’t suppress the urge to lick at them.

“Yeah,” Viktor murmurs, when they finally pull away, peppering soft kisses as they go, “exactly like that.”

 

* * *

 

Mila hands him a ticket to see the Western champion, as they’d discussed, and Viktor flaps a hand. “I’m sorry, Mila, I won’t need that. Yuuri asked me to come to his competition this weekend, so I can’t see the Western rider.”

Her lip curls up. “Yes,” she says, “and this is the ticket. They’re the same, you know.”

The same competition, Viktor realizes. He can see Yuuri _and_ the Western champion at once. Viktor’s lucky, that’s what he is.

So that weekend he pulls out his hat, an umbrella for the three Russians and their pale skin, and they settle to watch the last stretch of the endurance riding competition. The first rider canters in, miles ahead of the rest. It’s the Western champion, his small figure smooth and dauntless in the distance—as though anyone is surprised. Viktor can’t tear his eyes away.

“He likes to take a few minutes to cool down in a more private area,” Mila says, “let’s go now.”

Viktor wants to protest—after all, he knows Yuuri is in this competition too, somewhere. He hasn’t seen a glimpse of him, but he’s sure to be coming in at some point, and Viktor wants to meet him. Mila yanks him along, waves to Yuri, who’s decided to keep their seats and, if Viktor’s suspicions are correct, is waiting for another rider to come in. Who, Viktor doesn’t know.

“Come on,” Mila says, “quick.” And Viktor goes. She leads him past throngs of people, machinery and gear and observers in suits and flowing dresses. Finally, they reach a small, hidden staging area, and there’s— _Vicchan_? The mane is differently styled, yes, and there’s light equipment on him, but up close the horse is unmistakable. Viktor can see boots and chaps, moving slowly, and then the rider emerges from behind Vicchan’s tossing head.

Those cinnamon eyes, the softly rounded cheeks, the honestly of _his Yuuri--_ combined with the swept back hair and clothes of the Western champion. Once, Viktor stayed on horseback for a day straight and his legs and knees turned to jelly. They feel a lot like that now.

“Hey,” Mila greets, and then looks between them and sighs. “Okay then. I guess I’ll head back and keep Yuri company.” She exits. Viktor takes a few steps forward.

“Yuuri?” Viktor whispers, and the Japanese man’s face whips itself into a red flush. He fusses with Vicchan’s forelock, the curls of hair.

“Oh,” he mutters awkwardly, “you, um, saw my competition. You came. Did you…?”

“Saw it,” Viktor breathes. Yuuri. Yuuri’s here. Yuuri had won. Yuuri is the Western champion. Yuuri is so, so _hot_. “I _loved_ it. You—you _ride_. You’re a _champion_ , Yuuri. Why the _hell_ were you letting me boss you around the stable and grooming Makkachin for me? Oh, my god,” he realizes. “You’re a champion and I made you muck out Makkachin’s stall. Yuuri, _why_?”

Yuuri buries his increasingly red face into calloused hands.

“I—I really like you. Have, since I was a kid. I dreamed that someday I’d get to touch Makkachin and talk to you and then I _was_ and, well…”

“You ridiculous man,” Viktor gasps, and hugs him.

“Ack, Viktor, I’ve been riding all day and I’m _sweaty_ and just—“

Viktor ends all protest with his lips.

For minutes afterwards, the only one to talk is Vicchan, who nickers softly. Finally, he separates them, butting in.

“He won,” Yuuri laughs, “he wants a reward. I have to go get treats from my bag.”

“You won,” Viktor says slyly. “Don’t you get a reward, Yuuri?”

“I—I suppose,” Yuuri blurts, working at his lip. “I, yes, I definitely do.”

Vicchan is made to wait. Yuuri barely makes it back to the competition to collect his blue ribbon.

 

* * *

 

On lazy mornings they compete together, a strange combination of reining and dressage, to a discerning judge Yuri. Yuuri challenges him in poles—Viktor does jumps and trots Makkachin in teasing circles around Vicchan until Yurio yells at them both. When they can slip away, they saddle up and take Makkachin and Vicchan out on trail rides across shining fields and windy woods. They canter and race up hills, lean over and kiss across the space between their horses, settle for picnics beneath the shady oaks on the hidden acres of Yakov’s property.

Viktor loses all of the races. Viktor couldn’t care less.

Yakov catches Viktor and Yuuri kissing in the loft one Spring day. He catches them because a young Chinese man climbed up there, too, and couldn’t tear his eyes away before Yakov followed him.

“Hmph,” he snorts, and Viktor thinks that maybe that’s all he will say. Then, his arm raises, points at the young man, who’s a bright shade of red and who now is looking pointedly up into the rafters. “Guang Hong Ji. Upcoming Western rider and our stablehand. Stablehand,” he emphasizes, still looking at Guang-Hong. Then his thick finger swings to point to a rumpled Yuuri, lying beneath Viktor. “Several time champion in Western events.” He swings his hand to the Chinese boy. “ _Stablehand_.” Back to Yuuri. “Current _world record holder_ in endurance riding. Is it all clear to you now, Vitya?”

“Crystal,” Viktor moans, and buries his face in Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Take care of your own horse,” Yakov calls, and drags the poor boy away. Viktor nuzzles his face into the warmth of Yuuri’s chest, sighs.

“I should…”

“You can do that later.”

Yuuri pulls Viktor’s face back up to his, nips at his lip. Yuuri is very good at kissing, and hand holding, and making Viktor smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Insert dirty joke about endurance riding here.  
> Hi friends, I have a [tumblr](https://kiaronna.tumblr.com/).  
> Blue is Yuuri’s fave color— the color of first place, in this world, so boo-yah.  
> Also, Phichit is also a Western rider and he does events with cattle. He totally tried to get Yuuri to do them too. Also, Vicchan is of course short for Viktor, but as you might know horses have much longer official names. Vicchan’s is something sappy like Someday Close to Viktory. All of the horseback riding officials definitely get it, and ship them hard.  
> I ride horses in a way that is extremely not competitive, so sorry for any glaring issues within this one-shot. Whoops.  
> Happy birthday to youuuuuuu!


End file.
